


Fire On Fire

by SHismyBFF



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Boys In Love, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Set in Miami
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22280905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHismyBFF/pseuds/SHismyBFF
Summary: John Watson is heading to Miami, FL for a medical conference. Sherlock Holmes has business there, as well. They meet for the first time on the plane, quickly becoming fascinated with each other. South Florida has survived numerous hurricanes...but can it survive their partnership?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-working of a story I had abandoned due to lack of inspiration. The new title is taken from the Sam Smith song, which inspired me to re-work and complete this fic.

CHAPTER 1   
His knuckles turned white as he gripped the armrest. The plane was shaking and making horrible screeching sounds. He had never been this scared in his life, the panic around him was palpable. John Watson was struggling to maintain a calm façade, as a doctor he needed to be able to assist the flight crew if he could. He reminded himself that this was hardly the worst situation he had ever been in. As a Captain in the RAMC, he had faced much worse. 

But this was pretty freaking scary. 

Suddenly the plane went into a nose dive, the oxygen masks dropping from the ceiling. People were screaming…there was an explosion from somewhere behind him. John felt his entire body clench in preparation for impact, momentarily forgetting that he would sustain less injuries if he could stay relaxed. 

Bloody hell, how was he supposed to relax? He was on a plane about to crash in the middle of the Atlantic ocean for god's sake! 

Someone was grabbing at his arm, shaking his bad shoulder. He tried to shake them off, getting annoyed. "John!" a voice cried out. He tried to twist around in his seat to see what was happening. Again, "John!" the voice called. His stomach dropped out of his body, and the feeling of falling was overwhelming. This was it, he braced himself… 

And was lying on the floor of his bedroom, wrapped in a sweat soaked sheet. He shook his head to try and clear his thoughts. Mary glared at him over the side of the bed. 

"Another nightmare, John? Maybe you need to talk to someone. What was this one about?" Mary sounded exhausted, this was the fourth night this week her sleep was interrupted by her PTSD suffering bed mate. She was sympathetic, but she also had to get up in… -she picked up her phone and squinted at the bright light- less than an hour. Not worth going back to sleep, really. 

John sighed, hunching his shoulders uncomfortably. "Sorry, Mary. I don't know why it's been so bad, I guess this trip is bothering me more than I thought. I really think I should bow out of this conference, Mike can handle the presentation without me. I haven't been on a plane since the crash outside of Kandahar, you know that." John rubbed his eyes roughly, then slumped forward, wrapping his arms around his bent knees. "I know you've been looking forward to a holiday, but I really would rather give it a miss. Maybe you could go without me?" He questioned. 

The Association of Military Surgeons of the United States had invited John, along with his colleague and friend, Mike Stamford, to present a joint paper at their annual conference. This year the conference was being held in Miami, Florida, and John had known as soon as Mary saw the brochure that she would push for them to go. He couldn't blame her, the fall weather was as chilly and gray as ever. A bit of sun and sand would go a long way to restoring their moods heading into the holiday season. 

Mary rolled over and swung her legs off the opposite side of the bed. "I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that. I need a shower. Make us a cuppa?" her frustration with being awake so early was apparent, and she clearly didn't want to address the convention issue without her morning brew. John watched her blond curls disappear around the door to the loo. He roused himself up from the floor with the sound of the shower starting. 

John pulled his damp T-shirt over his head, then stripped off his pants. Wrapping himself in his warmest dressing gown, he tied the belt as he headed out to their small kitchen. The nightmare left him feeling tired and slightly confused, hopefully a cup of tea would sort him out. He put the kettle on and grabbed two mugs from the cupboard. Their day was going to be a busy one, the clinic in Central London only operated one week out of every month, with medical volunteers from the area rotating coverage. The waiting area had been consistently packed since Monday, thank goodness today was Friday. 

They were meant to leave for Miami tomorrow morning, hopefully when they returned the following week things could get back to normal. That's what he wanted wasn't it? His left hand was shaking as he reached for the kettle. 

He heard Mary moving about in the bedroom, and steeled himself for an uncomfortable conversation. John took his cup of tea and settled in his usual chair at the table. Mary pushed past him to grab her own steaming mug, turned and leaned her hip against the counter. She was hugging herself closely, and the first sips of the warm tea felt heavenly. "John…" Mary hesitated, not wanting to start the day with another row. Things between them had seemed so tense lately. They really needed this holiday, if she could just convince John to get on the plane. 

"Look. We're both exhausted. I know the idea of getting on a flight is making you nervous, but just think how wonderful it will be tomorrow night, drinking frozen cocktails on a warm beach? You don't have to present the paper until Tuesday, and Mike is counting on you. Can't you just take a Xanax and sleep on the flight?" Mary turned her back to him, her cheeks turning pink from the steam. 

John hunched over the table, cradling his mug between his hands. The warmth was starting to become too much, feeling almost like his fingers were burning. He closed his eyes tightly and took a deep breath, holding it for a moment, before slowly letting it escape. He was so exhausted, not just from lack of sleep. "Why is this so hard, Mary? Why does it all feel so hard?" He clenched his hands on the table, his frustration clear. 

"Jesus, John. Now? You want to start this now?" Mary set her mug down forcefully, tea sloshing out onto the counter. She stared at the small puddle for a moment before grabbing a towel to wipe it up with. A deep breath through her nose, exhaling in a rush. "Well, shit." She sighed, pulling out the chair opposite, and collapsed into it. "You need to talk to someone, John. Someone who can help you. I… I thought that I might be enough, that what we had together would be enough. But you're suffering, …John, look at me please." 

He raised his eyes to meet hers. "You've been so distant. I need more than this, John. I hate to tell you like this." She hesitates, looks away. Hugging her arms about herself again, she looks up almost defensively. "I've been seeing someone else, John. I didn't know how to tell you…" 

It took him several long minutes to identify his emotions, enough to be able to respond to Mary's (rather shocking) announcement. He was surprised to find that he was not…surprised. He had felt the growing rift and didn't know how to address it, knew he was causing the emotional distance. The thought of being on his own, of Mary leaving him, well. Rather than feeling angry or sad, he actually felt relieved. Relieved? Yes. Fuck. "So that's it then. We're over." A statement, not a question. "I'll need some time to sort out somewhere to live." God, work was going to be bloody awkward. 

Mary looked at him sadly. "Really, John? That's it?" her eyes tearing up. "You don't have anything else to say?" she asked. "This emotionless robot routine? This is why we won't work out!" She pushed away from the table, standing up and turning away from him to hide her tears. "I would work on this with you if you showed any desire at all, any love for me AT ALL!" her voice escalating to a shout at the end. "I tell you that I've been cheating on you, and you act like I forgot to pick up the milk on the way home." Mary wiped her eyes with tight knuckles. "Well. So that's it then. I can't believe this is really over." She sobbed tightly, trying to control her reactions. 

John remained seated, staring blankly at the space between them. "Goodbye, John." Mary stomped out of the kitchen. He heard her grab her bag and keys, then the door opening, slamming shut behind her.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2   
That had to have been one of the longest work days ever. Their breakup was a popular topic of discussion, every time he came out of the exam room to drop off a file at the front desk the resulting silence was deafening. He tried to escape for a few minutes in the afternoon, only to be cornered by Mike at the café around the corner. 

"What's going on, John? I heard you and Mary are finished? Are you still up for the conference, I don't want to be insensitive, but I was really looking forward to a week of sun. And some interesting master classes. The States really do these things up right, you know?" Mike spoke in a rush. "I've been rushed off my feet this week, it'll be a relief to be back at the hospital soon as well, won't it?" He had hurriedly added two packs of sugar and a creamer to his to-go cup of coffee, and shoved a wrapped sandwich into his jacket pocket. 

At John's silence, Mike slid into the seat opposite. "John? Mate? Is there anything I can do?" Mike was a good friend, they had been in medical training together before John joined the army. When John returned, injured and alone, Mike had helped him find work, and pulled him along to pub trivia nights and to watch football matches on the telly with his friends. Anything to get John out of the depressing bedsit where he suffered alone. John was grateful for Mike's jolly nature, and his concern put a half-smile on John's face. 

"I'll be fine, Mike. Yeah. So Mary has been cheating on me, can you believe it?" 

Mike's mouth dropped open in surprise. "Mary? No!" he said incredulously. "Are you all right? How did you find out?" 

"She told me this morning. We've kind of been…off…for a bit now, but it was still a bit of a shock. So, yeah. We're done. I'll be looking for a new place when we get back from Miami. I'm actually thinking of changing my ticket to leave tonight after work, I'm already packed." John pushed his bowl of soup away and took a last gulp of his tea. "With the time difference, I could still get in at a reasonable hour tonight. I just really don't want to see her right now. Work has been a nightmare, honestly." 

Mike leaned back on the bench seat, his eyes still wide with shock. "I don't know what to say, mate. I thought you and Mary were perfect for each other. You've always been tight-lipped about your private affairs, but Mary has been reading wedding magazines in the break room! I just assumed that's where you two were heading." Mike was shaking his head, then sipped his coffee in awkward silence. 

"I'm not really up to a relationship dissection right now, Mike. Sorry, I just…I'm just tired. Her announcing the affair at the breakfast table was surprising, but as I said, we've not been as close as we should have been lately. I'm actually feeling okay about it right now, just need to get through the rest of the day at the clinic and hopefully get off to the airport." John pushed his cup to the side, tapping his fingers on the tabletop. "I'm more surprised she dropped out of the trip to Miami, to be honest. She was the one that really wanted to go." He started to stand, "Walk back with me?" he asked. 

"Yeah, let's get this day over with! I could go the rest of my life without seeing another runny nose. Give me a strange, unexplained rash any day!" Mike had jumped up, sauntering to the front of the café. He held the door open for a couple of giggling girls. John followed him out to the pavement, and turned to head back to the clinic. "Of course I'll help you find a new flat," continued Mike. "You can kip at mine as long as you need to, you know Karen would be happy to have you. She's an amazing cook as well." Mike patted his rounded belly ruefully. "So send me a text tonight and let me know when you get to the hotel, yeah? Karen and I are on tomorrow’s flight, so maybe we can meet for dinner or something." Mike stopped abruptly outside the clinic entrance. "Who knows, maybe you'll meet the love of your life on this trip!" he chuckled. 

John opened the door and ushered Mike inside. He gave him a sideways smile, but didn't verbally acknowledge the sorry attempt at a joke. "I'll text you tonight, Mike. And thanks, mate, you're a good friend." John stopped at the check-in desk to pick up files for his last few appointments. The love of his life, right. Who would want to be with an emotionless robot like him?


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3   
John leaned his head against the small window, the rain pelting against the glass. The relentless drumming was doing nothing to help his pounding headache. He lucked out in getting a seat on this flight at all, and the relief of actually making it to the gate and boarding the plane on time was helping him to ignore his soaking wet trainers and soggy jeans. At least the middle seat was empty, a little more room to stretch out his bad leg would make the 9-hour trip marginally more tolerable. Maybe he would indulge with a whiskey once the drinks cart came by. He took a deep breath in, held it a moment, closed his eyes and let it out slowly. He could do this. 

The chaos of the other passengers getting settled had slowed, and John was bracing himself for the inevitable rumblings of taxi and take-off. He momentarily regretted not having the Xanax that Mary had suggested, but hoped that his exhaustion would allow him to remain unconscious for most of the flight. He was pulled out of his thoughts by the insistent buzz of his mobile. He slid it out of his pocket and checked the screen. John sighed, pursing his thin lips. 

Mary again. He thumbed across to ignore the call. He checked the text icon…5 new texts. What could she possibly want from him?! She's the one that cheated. He sent her a text on his way to the airport, letting her know that he was leaving tonight, and that he would contact her when he was back to pick up his things from the flat. As far as he's concerned, that's it. 

He clicked to open the texts, vaguely concerned it might be an emergency.

5:11 PM   
-John I'm sorry about this morning. Work was awful wasn't it? 

Understatement, thought John. 

5:34 PM   
-What can I say or do to change this John? You aren't really moving out are you?? 

Are you kidding me?! John shook his head slightly.

5:53 PM   
-This is ridiculous. You can't leave without talking this over. 

A bit late for that now... 

6:27 PM   
-You can't even answer me? You are such a coward John Watson. You're behaving like such a child! 

She knew that one would get under my skin, he thought. She's probably gone for drinks with some of the girls from the clinic. 

7:21 PM   
-You selfish bastard! You are such a fucking machine, John. I hope you get some help, you clearly need it. 

Wow. John's eyebrows lifted as he read the last text, his lips pursed. Ignoring that last call was definitely the right move. Definitely not an emergency, and not exactly something he's in the mood to respond to right now. He switches off the mobile and slips it back into his pocket. That whiskey can't come around soon enough. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

The sound of raised voices pulled John from his hard-won slumber. He raised his head to look over the seats, trying to see what the disturbance was about, and who was causing it. It would be just his luck if the plane was being taken over by terrorists right now. 

A female flight attendant was standing in the aisle towards the back of Business Class, leaning over a woman that looked like she was in tears. The attendant was speaking in a low voice, but it was clear that she was trying to diffuse a situation. She was answered by a rumbling baritone voice, John strained his neck trying to see the man it belonged to. The attendant stepped back as if she had been slapped, her face struggling to retain her composure. 

"I cannot allow you to keep harassing your fellow passengers, Mr. Holmes. You have already upset a number of people and been asked to move seats twice. This is the last straw, sir. There is only one other empty seat on this flight, I'm afraid I have to ask you to remove yourself from this row and follow me towards the rear of the plane." The attendant turned her head, scanning the back rows, and caught John's eye. 

She gave him a sympathetic look, but started heading his way, leading the troublesome passenger. John watched their progress up the aisle, but he couldn't get a good look at the guy from where he was sitting. He found himself feeling torn between mourning the loss of his extra leg-room, and his curiosity over this new development on what had been (let's be honest) a pretty boring and uneventful flight so far. 

"Here we are, sir. Excuse me ma'am, this gentleman will be sitting in the middle seat for the remainder of the flight. Would you mind standing so that he can get by? Thank you so much." The older lady in the aisle seat grumbled a bit under her breath, but stood so that the man could be seated next to John. The attendant leaned down in an attempt to keep the conversation private. "Now, we won't be having any more trouble out of you, will we, Mr. Holmes? Good. I really don't want to have to report you to security when we land. Please just try and keep quiet for the remainder of our flight." The flight attendant stood up, pulling the bottom of her jacket to straighten it. She smiled tightly at John, then turned and headed back to Business Class. 

"Did no one ever tell you it is impolite to stare?" The rich, deep voice of Mr. Holmes sent a shiver down John's spine. 

"Sorry, didn't realize I was." John did know he was staring, but really, he couldn't help it. The man sat next to him was the most beautiful person he had ever seen. 

He was tall, his legs were uncomfortably cramped in the small space. He was wearing an expensive looking suit (and he smelled amazing…what was that?), and his pale skin contrasted nicely with gorgeous ebony curls. He turned towards John, piercing him with an annoyed glare, but all John saw was his unusual eyes. He couldn't name the color, maybe silvery blue? John's eyes dropped to the man's lips, he'd never seen such a pronounced Cupid's Bow…he felt his cheeks flush just looking at them. 

"What did you do to get banished all the way back here?" asked John. "I'm John, by the way. John Watson." John held out his hand in greeting. 

"Sherlock Holmes." replied Sherlock, shaking John's hand with his elegant grasp. "And I didn't DO anything. I simply stated some irrefutable facts to a very annoying woman. It's hardly my fault if she became emotional over it." 

Sherlock crossed one leg over the other and leaned back, trying to get comfortable in the cramped space. "How do you stand this amount of discomfort for so many hours?" He glanced over at John. "Never mind. It's clearly not an issue for you, given your shorter than average height". Sherlock unbuttoned his suit jacket and pulled down both sleeves. He clasped his long fingered hands in his lap. 

John huffed a small laugh. "Well, you're not wrong there. Although the extra room to stretch is always welcome." He sat back and closed his eyes, hoping for a little more rest before they arrived. 

Sherlock glanced sideways at John, taking in his posture and expression. "You are handling your fear admirably, Dr. Watson." John's eyes flew open, he turned to Sherlock in surprise. 

"I'm sorry, what did you say? How could you possibly know that?" asked John. 

"Repetition is boring. Know which, that you have a fear of flying, or that you are a doctor?" questioned Sherlock. 

"Either!... Both!... How did you guess those things about me?" John rubbed his palms on his thighs self-consciously. 

"I don't guess, I deduce. It's a simple matter of observation. Anyone could employ the technique if they used half of their brains." Sherlock said disdainfully. "I saw you at the gate. There was a child running around and doing acrobatics on the chairs. He fell quite hard, possibly injuring himself. You immediately jumped up and offered to look him over for injuries, which suggests either teacher or doctor. A teacher traveling to Miami in the middle of term, though…unlikely. Also, the conference brochure falling out of your carry-on bag when you were searching for your passport…therefore, doctor. Now fear of flying, that was quite simple. The breathing techniques that you used as we boarded, the whiskey that you ordered from the drinks cart, those are tell-tale signs. But it's the tremor in your hand and leg that really give you away. As I said, however, you seem to be managing quite admirably." Sherlock sat back with a satisfied smirk. 

"That was…" John started. 

"Yes?" questioned Sherlock. 

"Amazing. That was amazing." John looked at Sherlock with a half-smile. 

Sherlock opened his eyes wide, a surprised look on his face. "That's not what people usually say." He seemed confused. 

"What do they usually say?" John asked. 

"Piss off." Sherlock answered him, his face carefully blank. 

John let out a small but infectious giggle, causing Sherlock to first smile, then laugh himself. Sherlock was suddenly grateful to the annoying idiots on the plane that he had already insulted, and the interfering flight attendant. He had just met this unassuming, seemingly average man, and had no idea what his plans were. But he knew that he wanted to find out.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4   
"Going to Miami on holiday, then?" questioned John. How could he find out if Sherlock was seeing someone? Probably best to just ask straight out. "Meeting your girlfriend there? His cheeks felt hot. That wasn't subtle at all, but he never was one for playing games. I’ve probably had enough whiskey, he thought. Who knows what he would say if his inhibitions slipped any lower. 

Sherlock smirked. "I'm not in the habit of taking a holiday - one would need "proper" employment for it to qualify as a holiday." He put a disdainful emphasis on the word holiday, as if anyone who needed a holiday should be ashamed of themselves. 

"…O-kay…So what is it that you do then, you know, if you're not properly employed?" John asked, his voice colored with amusement. 

"I am a consulting detective. Only one in the world." Sherlock announced proudly, with just a hint of shyness creeping in. He found himself wanting to impress this man. That's unusual, he thought. "I created the job, and I am quite good at it." His eyes narrowed as he tried to gauge John's reaction. It was incredibly hard to predict what he was thinking. 

John raised his eyebrows, and turned to get a better look at Sherlock. "Consulting detective? That sounds exciting. What exactly does it mean, though? People come to you with their problems and you help them?" John noticed that Sherlock hadn't addressed the girlfriend issue at all. Hmmm. Should he risk asking again, or just leave it? Leave it, for now, at least. 

"People and their problems," Sherlock scoffed. "Boring. I solve crimes that New Scotland Yard are too inept to solve on their own. They call me in when they find themselves in over their heads, which is quite often, and I catch the criminals for them." Sherlock leaned back in his seat, trying once again to get comfortable. 

"These compartments would be very effective if employed as a torture device!" His voice raised to a yell on the words torture device, causing several passengers to turn their heads and stare. He huffed and bent his head down, struggling to control himself.

"Alright, okay…I know it's uncomfortable, but we’ll be landing fairly soon. Here, the armrest is all yours, it might help if you lean over a bit." As Sherlock took him up on the offer, John got a breath of an intoxicating scent. It was slightly more than just the wonderful cologne, he didn't know how to describe it in words. Maybe it’s just Sherlock. 

"You need to keep your voice down, unless you fancy meeting the security detail at Miami International." John spoke in his best bedside manner, trying to calm Sherlocks' nerves. "Why don't you do your deducing thing and tell me about myself?" John felt that he was a pretty reserved guy, and he was interested to see how much Sherlock could read from him in such a short time. 

"My deducing thing.” Sherlock huffed. “Fine." The detective turned in his seat, focusing his silver gaze on his seatmate. John felt all at once that he was under a microscope, the world narrowed down to the small space between himself and the detective, and experienced a momentary inability to breathe. 

"I know that you were in the military, RAMC, most likely. You were injured and sent home unwillingly. You must have been shot, but where and under what circumstances? I need more information to determine that. Once home, you took a job beneath your skill level. You find it unbearably boring. You also just broke up with your girlfriend, lucky for you, I'd say, because you found her unbearably boring as well. You planned on this trip saving the relationship, but ended up leaving early and alone…so she must have told you something upsetting. Right, she was seeing another man. You've decided to move out when you get back from the conference, but don't have the funds to live on your own." He smiled broadly at John, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "How did I do?" he asked. 

John's face was frozen in shock. How in the world could Sherlock know all these intimate details of his life when they had known each other for barely an hour? His mouth opened and closed a few times before he found his voice, and was able to speak. "Brilliant." He noticed Sherlock's shy smile and a slight pink blush coloring his high cheekbones. "That was absolutely brilliant. How could you possibly know all of that?" The tip of John's tongue brushed along his bottom lip, and he sat back, waiting to hear Sherlock's methods. 

Sherlock's eyes followed the path of John's tongue with interest. Fascinating, he thought. He had never experienced this connection with another person before, and he didn't quite know what to make of it. 

"Your haircut and posture, as well as the neat appearance of your clothing all suggest a military background. RAMC is a logical deduction based on the fact that you are a doctor, which I had already confirmed. You were injured in the line of duty and sent home…your limp provides the evidence, I'm afraid. As well as the discomfort evident in your upper body and left hand…I'm going to say shot on the left side, possibly shoulder? Am I right so far?" Sherlock craved validation, and he was finding this exercise oddly satisfying. 

"Spot on so far," replied John. "I was a Captain in the RAMC, a medical surgeon. Fought in Afghanistan. Shot in the shoulder, irreparable nerve damage in my left hand. Got sent back for being useless." John stated this as a matter of fact, successfully hiding any emotions. 

Sherlock merely nodded and continued his analysis. "Now, the ex-girlfriend, that was a bit tougher. I happened to see you checking your text messages while waiting in line to board. Several within a short period of time, all left unanswered. If it was merely a fight, you would have gone home tonight and most likely reconciled. The fact that you scrambled to make an almost sold out flight a night early, and alone, is all the information I needed to conclude that your relationship is over. You were already bored of her, so it wasn't a far stretch to say that she started seeing someone else, and just told you about it. Your job doesn't pay that well, and your pension is pitiful. It's hardly a leap to say that you will be looking for a new flat, and a flatmate, as soon as you return." Sherlock sat back with a satisfied sigh, running his hands through his dark curls. 

John's reaction to Sherlock dissecting his break-up was interrupted by the Fasten Seatbelt sign flashing to life above his head. A crackly voice over the loudspeaker announced, "Cabin crew, please be seated." 

John sucked in a breath, and his knuckles turning white as he tightened his grip on his thighs. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has just turned on the Fasten Seatbelt sign. We are now crossing a zone of turbulence. Please return to your seats and keep your seatbelts fastened. Thank you." 

The flight attendant’s announcement set John’s nerves on edge. There were murmurs of discontent throughout the cabin, but John was deaf to everything except the remnants from his latest nightmare replaying like a film before his eyes. He fought the urge to panic. This is just a routine flight, no one is shooting at us…he attempted to calm himself as the plane shook, and momentarily dropped quickly, causing a number of gasps and squeals from their fellow passengers. 

Sherlock observed John’s abrupt discomfort with a feeling of confusion. He knew John had a fear of flying, but the man looked as if he was suffering a severe panic attack. It seemed out of proportion to…Ahhh, something happened in Afghanistan, that must be it. Some form of PTSD, perhaps? That would explain the distress John seemed to be in at the moment. 

"Umm, John…" Sherlock addressed his new acquaintance uncomfortably. "I must confess that I don't know what to do in this situation. I have been called a sociopath before, I don't know how to assist when there are emotions involved…" Sherlock broke off as the plane dipped and shook rapidly.

John’s breathing was shallow and quick, his face had turned a sickly gray. Sherlock didn't know if his words were even being heard. "Would it help if I were to take your hand?" He surprised himself with the offer of comfort, but hoped it might help John calm down.

John nodded once. Sherlock reached over and placed a cool hand in Johns' lap. The long fingers wrapped slowly around John’s fist, Sherlock rubbing his thumb lightly over the back of John’s hand in an attempt to soothe him.

John unconsciously leaned into Sherlock, his body seeking comfort in this situation that his mind couldn't control. They sat this way for a few moments before Sherlock removed his hand. The Fasten Seatbelt light had blinked off, followed by an announcement that they were again free to move about the cabin. 

John felt the loss of contact, his breathing slowed a bit but he didn't quite feel in control of himself. Sherlock reached his arm behind John's shoulders, pulling him in to lean more comfortably against his side. "Alright?" Sherlock asked. Again, John nodded once. His cheek rubbed against the fine fabric of Sherlock's suit jacket. "That's it. Try to take a deep breath. Count three on the inhale, hold for three, and three on the release." Sherlock's voice in his ear was deep, his breath warm against his cheek. John closed his eyes and tried to follow his direction. It wasn't long until he had his breathing under control. 

He continued to lean against Sherlock for a few moments, then reluctantly pulled away. John tried to hide his embarrassment, but his blushing cheeks gave him away. "Sorry about that…it's been a long time since I've been in an airplane. Didn't expect to react quite that badly." John wiped his palms on his jeans. 

"Forget it, it's fine. Will you be alright now? I can ask the attendant for some water if you'd like." Sherlock offered. He felt vaguely embarrassed as well, but wasn't sure why. He wasn't unaware of the needs of others in general, but it was rare that he reacted to them. What was it about John that made him feel so protective? They barely knew each other.

John leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The beginnings of a headache were just starting to take shape. "I'm going to try and get a nap in before we land. I really appreciate your kindness, Sherlock. I guess it was a lucky thing for me that you got disciplined by that flight attendant." the smirk was evident in John's tone.

Sherlock turned towards John, looking down at his resting face. At least he had a bit of color back in his cheeks. "Yes. Lucky for me as well" he said softly. 

The Captain had just made the announcement, they were about to land at Miami International. It was a balmy 26 C on the ground. Sherlock thought about changing his watch setting to 11 PM, but didn't want to disturb John. Sometime after he had fallen asleep, John leaned over and practically curled around Sherlock's side.

Far from being annoyed by this, the detective found himself oddly pleased. No one had touched him this much in years, at least not willingly. There was the occasional full body tackle in his training gym, but that was nothing compared to this. John looked peaceful and almost…sweet. He had obviously needed the sleep.

"John?" Sherlock said, softly. "John, you need to wake up. We're about to land. The Captain actually got us here in one piece." Sherlock smiled, seeing John's eyes flutter open.

John rubbed his hand across his face sleepily, then scrubbed it through his hair. He sat up, suddenly realizing that his position was almost in the detective's lap. "Oh my God, Sherlock! I'm so sorry. Why didn’t you push me off? I hope you weren't too uncomfortable. God. I'm really sorry" John exclaimed. Could this night get any more embarrassing?! 

"No, John. It's fine. It's all fine." Sherlock gave him a small half-smile. "It was no trouble. Were you able to rest a bit?" Not long ago, Sherlock had been counting the minutes (extremely impatiently) until he could get off this uncomfortable flight. Now he found himself regretting that his time with John was coming to an end.

"Yeah, ta. Though it'll feel amazing to stretch out in a bed, I'm sure." John cringed at himself, he didn't want Sherlock to think he was propositioning him…did he? "I never did find out what you're doing in Miami, did I?" 

"No, we never got to that. It's a bit of a long story, though. The short version is that I'm doing a favor for a friend." Sherlock found himself itching to tell John all the details, he was sure John would be excited about the case.

The plane had landed during their conversation, and John hadn't even noticed. Amazing, he thought. They taxied to the gate, people were getting restless, standing and shifting to retrieve bags from the overhead compartments. The old woman on the other side of Sherlock elbowed him squarely in the chest in her haste to stand up.

"Where are you staying? I'd like to take you to dinner, it's the least I can do to thank you for everything you put up with tonight." John didn't want to let this man go, not without knowing when he would see him next.

"Honestly, John, I'm not sure. It depends on my contacts here. But don't worry, I'll find you" Sherlock promised.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5  
Sherlock hated leaving John behind. His older brother Mycroft, who occupied a small role in the British government, had helpfully seen to it that Sherlock's trek through Customs was quick and painless. He grabbed his luggage from the carousel and located the private driver that was waiting for him. 

Sherlock followed the driver out of the airport - straight into hell. At least, this must be what hell feels like, he thought. This humidity is going to wreak havoc on my hair. As he settled into the backseat of the car, he took a last look at the teeming arrivals terminal. He scanned his eyes over the lines waiting for a taxi, hoping to catch a glimpse of sandy blonde hair. It was too dark and crowded to make out individuals, even if they did possess the brightest blue eyes and warmest smile that Sherlock had ever encountered. 

His phone chirped a text alert. 

I see you arrived safely, brother. - MH 

Obviously. Where am I being taken? - SH 

You have a reservation at the Hotel Beaux Arts-I believe it is the Bay View Suite. Just please remember, Sherlock, this is not a vacation. - MH 

Shut up, Mycroft. I am not a child. - SH 

Then let's hope you won't continue to behave like one. - MH 

Mother requested my help with this. You know as well as I do that if I were to let her down, I would never hear the end of it. - SH 

I've arranged for you to meet with the victim's widow, Mrs. Deborah Ayers, for questioning. Tomorrow afternoon at 4 pm. You'll receive details in the morning. - MH 

What about Mrs. Hudson? Is she safe? - SH 

For now. I'm working on the situation. I'll keep you updated. MH 

Work faster. - SH 

Good night, Sherlock. - MH 

Exhausted and drained, Sherlock finally found himself alone in his suite. He checked the bedroom, finding his bags already unpacked for him. Mycroft must be feeling generous, he thought. His footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor as he made his way back into the sitting room. 

The view from the floor to ceiling windows would be spectacular in daylight, but at the moment he only saw his own reflection in the glass. He picked up the remote that controlled the drapes and watched as they smoothly shut. 

Sherlock signed into the hotel WiFi on the complimentary iPad, beginning to research leads for the case. He needed to talk through the details and come up with a plan. What answers did he expect to get from Mrs. Ayers tomorrow? Damn, I don't have my skull. He had a thought- his mouth forming a half-smile as he began searching the local hotels. 

John was preparing for bed when he was interrupted by a pounding on the door. It startled him, as Mike wasn't arriving until tomorrow. He had just texted to warn him about the shockingly high heat and humidity. He heard a voice in the hallway as he padded barefoot through the entryway. Standing on tiptoe and leaning forward to see through the peephole, John was pleasantly surprised at the face staring back at him. 

He pulled the door open and Sherlock swept past him, already in the middle of a sentence."...could be dangerous, should definitely be carrying a weapon..." 

"Sherlock? How did you find me? Are you alright? What's dangerous?" the many questions John had all fought to be the first out of his mouth. "Did you need somewhere to stay? " John tried to keep his voice from sounding too hopeful. 

"John. You are a doctor." Sherlock stated. 

"Mmm...yes." replied John with a sharp nod.

"And you were in the army. You received a commendation for marksmanship." 

"How in the world...never mind. Yes, also correct." John rubbed his hand through the short, sandy strands on his head. 

"You expressed an interest in my case. I require your assistance, I left my skull at home. " Sherlock admitted. 

"Your skull?" John felt he was struggling to keep up with this conversation. 

"Yes, it helps me to talk through my thoughts out loud. You would be a passable stand-in." Sherlock ruffled his hair with both hands, then swung himself into an armchair. His legs bounced with barely restrained energy. 

"Gee, thanks so much." John replied dryly. 

"No, no. Don't take offense. I never work with anyone because everyone is an idiot." Sherlock turned to the side and swung his legs over the arm of the chair, hanging his head upside down off the opposite side. 

"My client is Mrs. Martha Hudson. Her husband Richard is currently incarcerated at the Federal Detention Center here in Miami. She was visiting relatives in Hampshire when an attempt was made on her life. She was lucky, the would be assassin turned out to be a terrible shot. My mother and Mrs. Hudson are old school friends - she remembered that our family estate was nearby, and made her way to the relative safety of my family's parlor. After considerable prompting and frankly an appalling amount of tea, my mother was able to piece together the details of her predicament. Knowing of my brilliant professional record for solving mysteries, of course Mummy called me and asked me to take her case." Sherlock spoke quickly and expressively, his hands helping to emphasize and embellish his story. 

John sat down on the end of his bed. "So let me get this straight. You came to Miami to catch an assassin? And what, get Mr. Hudson out of jail?" John tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of Sherlock's thoughts. 

Sherlock stood and began pacing the small room. "Oh no, John. You misunderstand me. My brother, Mycroft, is meant to be dealing with the assassin in England. I've been sent here to ensure Mr. Hudson is convicted for his crimes. Mrs. Hudson thinks it was Richard that ordered the attempt on her life, and I'm inclined to agree. When I met with her, I deduced that their relationship had been controlling and abusive. He was able to organize an attempt on her life from Federal prison, John. Mrs. Hudson isn't perfect, but no one deserves the treatment she has endured. I won't be satisfied until we find the evidence needed for Richard Hudson to receive the death penalty." Sherlock spoke passionately. 

The energy in Sherlock's movements and the fire blazing in his eyes were intoxicating to John. I'm in trouble, he thought. Already he would be willing to do anything this man asked of him. John stood and began searching through his bag for clean clothes. "Alright, I'm in. Where do we start?" he asked. 

Sherlock fell backwards into the armchair, steepling his fingers under his chin. His mouth quirked in a small smile. He knew John would agree to help him, but hearing John agree gave him a warm feeling. It was novel, and entirely unfamiliar. This is the beginning of something new, he thought with excitement. 

"John, I certainly hope you packed your gun! We are going to need it." Sherlock looked up and met John's excited grin.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6  
As it turned out, there wasn't much they could do after midnight except find somewhere to get a drink. Sherlock didn't have any leads to follow yet, and there was still the matter of the interview with Mrs. Ayers to discuss. 

Sherlock pulled out his phone and ordered an Uber while John got dressed. When the doctor emerged from the bathroom, he had donned dark, slim-fit jeans and a tight fitting V-neck tee in charcoal gray. He had added a bit of gel to his hair, and smiled self-consciously as the detective gave him an appreciative once-over. Sherlock hummed his approval. 

"The driver is 4 minutes away, John. Where are your shoes? We should head downstairs now." The detective was practically vibrating with energy. 

John was exhausted from a number of short nights on top of the time change, but Sherlock's excitement was giving him a second wind. He pulled on his shoes, bending over to tie them. Sherlock couldn't help a quick perusal of John's fit backside. The physical reactions to arousal that he was experiencing first hand were unexpected for him, but he couldn't deny that that's exactly what was happening. 

John straightened up, grabbed his wallet from the bedside table, and slipped it into his back pocket. "Ready to go." he stated, turning a bright smile on Sherlock. "I looked up a few places we could try on my phone, I'd love to buy you a drink while you catch me up on the case." John was trying desperately to sound calm and nonchalant, aware that the younger man could read his every thought on his face. He didn't want to come on too strong and scare the detective away, after all. 

Silver-gray and dark blue eyes met, and both men felt the frisson of attraction between them. Sherlock's body was betraying him, his cheeks flushed a bright pink. His fingers stretched as if to take the doctor's hand in his, but just as quickly he retracted them and shoved them into his pocket. Did John notice that? He thought to himself. 

Sherlock suddenly wished that he had more experience with relationships. He recognized the signals of interest that John was transmitting, but had no idea how to reciprocate. Maybe it would become clear after a drink or two. He was most comfortable when discussing his cases, and John seemed genuinely interested in the case, as well as in him. 

"Excellent suggestion, John. This is my first visit to Miami, I am willing to cede control to you in choosing our destination." Sherlock held the room door open and ushered John out into the hallway. 

The Uber driver was waiting for them in front of the hotel. Sherlock slid over to the far window as John settled in and pulled the rear door shut. The driver turned his head to face them. "Hey, would one of you want to sit up front? I promise I won't bite." Bill Jasper was a middle-aged man with a hopeful comb over and a pastel pink golf shirt. "I hate feeling like I'm Driving Miss Daisy, hah." He exclaimed. 

The look on Sherlock's face was at first blank and uncomprehending. Then his eyes seemed to take in every detail of the man and his car, and his nose scrunched up in a cute little wrinkle. "I'll thank you not to smoke while we're in your car, Bill, as I'm trying to quit. Successfully, so far. It's the drinking that keeps costing you your employment though, isn't it? I'm sure you wouldn't bite, this entrepreneurial enterprise is your last chance at keeping your family intact, you wouldn't do anything to jeopardize that. Your wife threatened to leave you and take the kids after your last boss let you go. The flexibility of working for yourself and the fear of losing your family seems to be working out, though, so you could tell her to be cautiously optimistic. My friend and I prefer to sit together, despite your feelings on Miss Daisy, whoever that may be." Sherlock sat back and pulled his mobile out of his pocket, considering the interaction over. 

"Sherlock!" John hissed under his breath. He was beginning to see the treatment that his fellow flight passengers had been subjected to, and why they may have had an issue with the detective. 

"It's all true, John." stated Sherlock, as the blindsided Bill continued to gape at him in shock. 

"I don't doubt it for a moment. All I'm suggesting is that you consider the delivery. Is this man's private life information that really needed to be shared out loud?" John's tone was bemused. 

John quickly hopped out and took the front seat while Sherlock sulked in the back. He smiled apologetically at Bill. Showing the driver his phone, they had a short discussion about their destination. The next ten minutes passed in an awkward silence. 

John was relieved when they pulled into the circular drive in front of the Thompson Miami Beach Hotel. He settled the charge with Bill and hopped out into the humid evening. John held the rear door open for Sherlock, who slid out gracefully, joining him on the tiled driveway. The sulk was still evident in the pout of Sherlock’s lips. John had the sudden urge to lean forward and kiss that pout away - it took everything in him to hold back. Instead, he took the detective's hand in his and led him up the steps into the lobby, studiously ignoring Sherlock's jolt of surprise. 

They stopped to admire the breathtakingly gorgeous chandelier, then continued through the lobby to the 1930's House. John had read about this place online, and was not disappointed. It was a restored Florida style bungalow turned cocktail/tapas bar. The living room had been cozily furnished, and sported wood beam ceilings and a limestone fireplace. The club chairs near the (thankfully unlit) fireplace looked wonderfully comfortable. John planned to use the intimate setting to his advantage and get to know Sherlock better. 

There was live music tonight, a solo Spanish acoustic guitar set a romantic and relaxing mood, exactly what John was hoping for. Sherlock ordered drinks for them, and John chose a few of the delicious tapas on offer. Once settled in, they took a moment and just gazed at each other. 

Sherlock found himself momentarily speechless- another unexpected side effect of spending time with John Watson, he mused. He had been shocked when John took his hand outside the hotel. He could still feel the warmth from John's strong fingers wrapped around his palm, and wondered if it would be acceptable if he reached over and reclaimed them. He decided to reach for his drink instead, at least for the moment. Just a bit of liquid courage, he thought to himself. 

John leaned back in his chair comfortably, crossing his right leg over his left knee. He sipped his drink and sighed in pleasure. "All right, let's get into it. What's the plan? What did Mr. Hudson do to end up in jail in the first place, and why would he send a hit man after his wife?" John asked. 

"I'll fill you in on what I've learned so far, and we'll decide on a plan together, all right?" Sherlock sipped his drink, then placed it on the small table and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his fingers clasped. "Richard Hudson and his business partner, Mr. Timothy Ayers, ran a moderately successful import/export business. It started as a small operation, dealing mostly with Caribbean suppliers. Unfortunately, Richard is also a heavy gambler. He owed a lot of money to some very nasty people. As I understand it, he was approached by someone - most likely also involved with those nasty people - with an idea of how he could make good on his debts. It didn't take much persuasion for old Rich to start trafficking drugs through his business." Sherlock paused for a sip of his drink. 

"I was able to track shipments from Colombia to Miami, and from Miami into the Dominican Republic. The lack of security and technological resources in the Caribbean ports made it almost comically simple to follow the trail, it's a wonder he wasn't caught sooner." Sherlock had been staring at John's hands as he spoke, admiring the compact strength held in check. He raised his eyes to John's face, and he felt his cheeks flush when he observed the doctor smiling warmly at him. 

John took a bite of a spinach and feta croqueta, chewing thoughtfully. He swallowed, feeling Sherlock's gaze locked on his throat. Their eyes met and John felt the burning spark of attraction jump so clearly between them that it may as well have jumped out of the non-existent fire and landed on his skin. He swallowed again, and tried to rein in his errant thoughts. Focus! He mentally slapped himself, and made a valiant effort to hold up his end of their conversation. 

"So he's a drug trafficking middle-man. What about his partner? Is Ayers in jail as well? He must have realized what was going on. And what, they got busted, right? What happened, a raid on their local warehouse?" John sat back in his chair. 

It was almost too comfortable, between the quiet music and the delicious food and drink, he was fighting the need to drop off. Staying awake was challenging, but watching the animated detective lay out the facts of the case was interesting - almost as interesting as the play of light on Sherlock's dark curls and sharp cheekbones. God, I just want to run my hands through those curls…I wonder what his lips feel like… John shook his head, trying to clear it of these thoughts before he got too far involved in the images they were creating. 

Sherlock's eyes chased the thoughts across John Watson's face. He could see the exhaustion in the older man, as well as the attraction. He had, of course, seen attraction directed at himself by both men and women, but this was the first time he felt compelled to act on it. His past sexual partners had been chosen out of a need to understand why sex was such a powerful motivator, and he had been left as uncomprehending after the physical acts as he had been before. It must be this feeling that makes the difference, he thought. This need, this desire to touch John, to know his every thought. To run my hands down his sides and grip his hips, to… 

"Sherlock?" John was leaning towards him, looking concerned. "You okay?" 

"John. Yes, of course. I'm fine." Sherlock finished his drink in one long swallow. "I sometimes get lost in my thoughts. I confess, I am feeling quite exhausted. The time change is affecting me more than usual." Sherlock rubbed his hands on his thighs unconsciously. 

"I'm quite tired as well, it's understandable. Would you mind if we rested for a few hours, and continued this discussion over breakfast tomorrow?" John leaned over to place his empty glass on the table, his knee brushing along the side of Sherlock's long thigh. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply. "I don't usually eat or sleep when I am working a case, John. I will admit to not thinking as clearly as usual, though." Sherlock ducked his head shyly. "It would probably be better if you came back to my hotel with me, my brother put me in an enormous suite, so there is plenty of room. And we still need to sort out a gun…it just makes sense to stay together." 

John tried to control his excitement. Did Sherlock just invite me up to his room?! He smiled as he signaled for the check. He turned back to the detective, looking at him with barely contained heat. "That sounds like a great idea. I don't see that I've done anything useful yet, and I really do want to help. I have a few old friends in the US Army, I can look them up and see if anyone can help me out with a gun." John paid the check, then stood, extending his hand to the detective. 

Sherlock took John's warm hand in his, and slowly unfolded his long frame from the chair. "We'll have to call a cab this time, John. I refuse to be separated just to cater to a driver for hire." Sherlock sniffed indignantly. 

John squeezed his detective's hand in comfort, and smiled indulgently up at him. "Of course, Sherlock. I don't want to be separated from you either." He felt ridiculously pleased as the blush colored his detective's beautiful face.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those of you who bookmarked this story! It makes my heart happy.
> 
> So...I wrote chapters 1-6 of this story almost 5 years ago. This is the first "new" chapter. The chapter count has gone up, and the rating may change as we move along. My writing style has evolved a bit - I tried my best to match the tone of the story, so I hope you still enjoy reading it. If you do...kudos and comments, please!
> 
> -SHismyBFF

His shoulder aches, but it feels good to keep going - pushing himself beyond comfort. His arms are working hard, pulling his body smoothly through the water. He can hear his own breath, feel his lungs straining against his ribs. There’s a light splash of water accompanying each stroke as he propels himself to finish his last lap strong. He hangs on the edge for a few moments, gasping to catch his breath before pulling himself up and out of the pool.

John grabs the orange poolside towel from the sun lounge, aggressively drying himself before spreading it out on the chair. He feels pleasantly worked out, if still a bit tired. They had returned to Sherlock’s suite sometime around 3 AM, both stripping down to pants and collapsing into bed - too tired to do anything but sleep. 

John woke up alone this morning, no sign that the detective had even been in the bed. Sherlock had left him a note on the sitting room desk, along with a key card for the room. The detective would text him where to meet up later, John’s belongings should be delivered soon, and he was to order room service and take advantage of hotel amenities as much as possible, to “stick Mycroft with the bill”. John had smirked, then promptly ordered himself blueberry pancakes.

The late morning sun feels nice, even if the humidity makes it difficult to breathe. His skin still holds the remnants of his Afghani tan, but he’s enjoying the chance to even it out a bit. He takes the precaution of spraying sunblock (he’s still a doctor after all), donning his sunglasses and taking a swig of cold water before lying back to soak up some rays.

He’s roused from relaxed, languid dreams by his text alert. Fumbling on the ground next to his lounge, his fingers finally wrapped around his mobile.

Made it to the hotel, mate! What room are you in?

John glanced at the time, surprised to see it was already half one. He wiped his hands on the towel, then answered Mike.

Hey Mike, change of plans. I’ve actually met someone.

That’s some quick work, LOL  
Still want to meet up tonight?

John rubbed his hand through his hair, stiff from the saltwater pool. Sherlock had said they were meeting someone for an interview today, but he couldn’t recall the time.

Sorry, mate, I’ve got plans with Sherlock... 

John waited for Mike’s reply, feeling guilty for ditching his friend.

Sherlock? Not Sherlock Holmes? The detective from London?

John’s mouth dropped open in surprise. 

Yes… You know him?! How?

I’ve run into him a few times in the labs at Bart’s - he’s a smart fella - right up your alley :)

John grinned, his friend knew him too well. 

I’ll meet you Monday morning at the hotel, we can go over the presentation. What’s our time slot again?

Don’t worry about it, John. Relax, get some sun. We present at 2 PM on Tuesday, we’ll be fine if we meet up for lunch right before, just to go over details. I’m fine to hang out with Karen.

Thanks, Mike. You’re a good mate, you know?

No better than you deserve, John! Text me on Tuesday to confirm details.

John set his mobile down. It really was quite hot out here, he felt a bit sweaty and overheated. Surprised to see he was still the only guest on the pool deck, he stood up. Dropping his shades on the lounge chair, he took a quick step/hop, performing a perfect cannonball, sending sprays of water flying. He swam underwater the length of the pool before lifting himself out again. He gathered his things, heading inside to take a shower and dress.

******

John returned to Sherlock’s suite, finding his luggage had all been delivered. He unpacked into one of the empty wardrobes, thinking that his clothes looked a bit dingy in comparison to all the clean, shiny white of the surroundings.

He luxuriated in the large glass and tile shower, testing the different fancy soaps and gels until he found a scent that appealed to him. He dressed efficiently in navy blue chino shorts and a plaid button down, rolling the sleeves up to just under his elbows. His cheeks and nose looked a little pink, so he smoothed some after-sun lotion on his face.

I wonder what Sherlock is up to, he thought. He considered texting the man, then decided against it. Thinking about the case reminded him about the need for a gun. He looked around the room, his eyes settling on his laptop bag. He quickly retrieved it, setting himself up at the desk. 

John had accounts on a few different social media sites, but for this request, he needed to use an encrypted email program. He opened a new message to his American friend, Bill Murray. This was a quick inquiry, he hoped Bill was around and would get back to him soon. Just as he started to think about ordering some food, his mobile chimed a text alert.

Meet me outside. I have a car. - SH

John smiled as he tucked his mobile in his pocket. He grabbed his wallet and his sunglasses, then pulled on his trainers and headed out. 

His new friend was easy to spot...everyone in the vicinity - male and female - were stealing glances. Sherlock looked like a GQ model, leaning on the side of a black Audi S5, his feet crossed at the ankles and hands in his pockets. He raised a hand when he saw John, then moved to take control in the driver’s seat.

John whistled as he opened the passenger door. “Wow, Sherlock! I can’t believe you lucked into this rental!” John admired the spotless leather interior. “It looks brand new!” he exclaimed.

“I didn’t rent this, John - I bought it. Well, Mycroft bought it, he just doesn’t know it yet.” Sherlock smirked as he eased out to join the traffic on Biscayne Boulevard. 

John shook his head in disbelief. “Wouldn’t it have made more sense to rent? What are you gonna do with this when you go back to London?” John fastened his seatbelt as Sherlock began to weave quickly in between the lines of cars. 

Sherlock changed gears, handling the clutch and gear shift as smoothly as a professional. “This way I don’t need to worry about performance or agreements, John. We need speed and agility, but also to blend into the woodwork, so to speak.” He checked his rearview mirror and changed lanes again. “I did some research last night while you were sleeping. This model is popular in Miami, so we won’t stick out...we won’t be remarkable whether we’re using valet parking or hanging around a warehouse parking lot in the dark.”

John settled back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re a brilliant madman, Sherlock Holmes. I’ll take your word for it.” John looked out the window, trying to keep track of the turns. “So...where are we going?” he asked.

“Coral Gables Country Club. We’re meeting Mrs. Deborah Ayers. She has a tennis lesson, and this is the only time she could fit us in.” Sherlock glanced over at John, scrutinizing his new friend. “I see you enjoyed some time at the pool this morning, I’m glad.” He reached over to adjust the air. “I don’t know how anyone can live in this heat, John, I can’t think!” He gripped the gear shift in frustration.

John gave Sherlock a fond look. “Well, you’re holding up better than most, I’d reckon. You look like a model in that suit.” John smiled at the blush that his comment elicited on the detective’s angular cheeks. “I’m a lucky man, being picked up by a such a glamorous gentleman.”

“You’re being ridiculous, John.” Sherlock’s tone was embarrassed but pleased. “Any progress obtaining a gun?” He tried to steer the conversation to safer ground. “I don’t expect this interview to become violent, but one never knows.”

John pulled his mobile from his pocket, thumbing through to his email. “Right. Yes, actually, my friend responded...hold on.” John took a moment to read Bill’s response and send him a quick thanks. “So we’ll need to get in touch with a guy he knows near here...should be able to come up with something, for the right price.” John rubbed his hand down his thigh. “Umm, about that…”

Sherlock interrupted him. “Don’t worry, John. I’ve got it covered.” The detective turned into a grand, gated entrance, stopping to give their names to the attendant. He turned to John with an animated glint in his eyes. “Ready, John? Let’s see what Mrs. Ayers can tell us.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little later than planned, this chapter fought with me! But here it finally is, and I hope you enjoy! Kudos and comments, please!
> 
> -SHismyBFF

CHAPTER 8

Mrs. Ayers turned out to be a fit woman, looking younger than John expected. She was finishing up her tennis lesson, so Sherlock and John waited on a shaded patio area next to the courts. They watched her have a quick word with her instructor, then jog over to greet them. 

“I’m boiling, let’s sit in the shade…” She gestured them towards a table. “Would you two like something to drink? I should know better than to agree to afternoon lessons, I get so overheated!” She signaled the waiter as soon as they were seated, removing her white visor and smoothing her dark hair. The waiter approached the table with menus, but Mrs. Ayers waved hers away, requesting only a sweet tea with lemon.

Sherlock turned on his best Southern charm, at least for the moment. “I’m dying for a sweet tea as well, how about you, John?” He smiled, relaxing into the cushioned wicker chair.

“Just water for me, thanks.” John crossed his legs, vaguely wishing he had brought something to take notes with. “You look like a professional out there, Mrs. Ayers.” Flattery is always a good policy, he thought.

“Oh, please. Call me Debbie. I’m nowhere near professional, but it’s good exercise.” John raised his eyebrows at the marked Southern drawl, finding it more pronounced than others he had encountered on the trip thus far.

She tilted her head, regarding the two men with narrowed eyes. “The police said that you wanted to talk to me...I don’t really understand why. I’ve told them everything I know. I feel quite helpless, actually.” She picked up a napkin from the table, twisting it in her hands. “I’ve spoken to so many official people, I can’t keep track of who’s who anymore.”

The drinks were served in tall, icy glasses. Sherlock took a long sip of his sweet tea - John’s eyes were riveted by the movement of his throat, convulsing endlessly as he swallowed. The doctor had to shake his head to clear it of some steamy thoughts... consciously directing himself to stop staring at the man. He was thankful for the bit of sun he got this morning, hoping it would conceal the blush that colored his cheeks. Get it together, John - be professional! He thought to himself.

Sherlock set his glass down, leaning forward a bit. “Thank you, Debbie, you may call me Mr. Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr. John Watson.” His long hand gestured vaguely in John’s direction. “We’re actually here on behalf of Martha Hudson. We believe you may have information that will benefit her case, as well as that of your missing husband.” He took another sip of tea, clearly savoring the overly sweet beverage. “Would you tell us about the last time you saw or spoke to your husband?” he asked.

“Oh my, I haven’t seen Martha in an age!” She exclaimed. “How is she?”

Sherlock adjusted the sleeves of his shirt. “She’s visiting relatives, trying to stay calm. Waiting to see what happens with Richards’ trial, of course.” The detective narrowed his eyes, observing their host closely.

“Oh, of course. It’s all been so horrible. We weren’t terribly close, you know, but we did socialize as couples now and again.” Debbie closed her eyes, putting a hand (rather dramatically, John thought) to her forehead. 

“Well now, I was leaving to visit my Mama, she lives up in Charleston” she drawled. “Timmy never wants to go, he always has ‘work to do’ which he thinks I don’t know is code for playing golf with his friends.” She sat back from the table, crossing her legs as she sipped her tea. “I didn’t even bother asking him, you know, because he would have said no anyway.”

Sherlock was tapping his foot impatiently under the table. His pretense of charm was dropped in favor of exasperation. “Yes, yes. Of course, he had lost interest in you, the marriage, etcetera. What did he say to you - exactly - before you left?” John subtly kicked Sherlock’s shin, earning himself an affronted squawk from the detective. 

Debbie gave Sherlock a wounded look. “I’ll admit, we hadn’t been on the best terms recently. He was always preoccupied and calling at the last minute to cancel our evening plans together.” She set her glass back on the table and began twisting her wedding ring nervously. 

“I remember, I was putting my bags in the trunk of the car, and he came walking out of the house. He was looking everywhere but at me...I only mention it because I remember thinking it was strange, because why would he bother coming out to see me off, if he wouldn’t look me in the eye?” She stopped speaking, her expression closing off.

“He asked me how long I’d be gone, and I told him it would only be a few days. I was planning to be back for a charity luncheon my friend Nora was hosting that Wednesday.” She began tapping her foot, which clattered loudly on the tiled floor. “He didn’t even kiss me goodbye, just sort of patted my arm before going back in the house.” She rubbed both palms on the arms of her chair before taking another sip of tea.

“I called him, you know, when I got there. He didn’t answer, I figured he was on the golf course and didn’t want the interruption.” Debbie stopped talking, crossing her arms in front of her chest. This action pressed her full breasts together, her tank top showing off a healthy amount of cleavage. John’s eyes dropped from her face momentarily, until he turned his gaze to the detective - who was glaring at him in irritation. John smiled at him sheepishly, he should have known Sherlock would catch him taking a peek. I’m only human, he thought.

Sherlock turned his attention back to Debbie. “Did you speak to him at all while you were away?” he asked impatiently.

“No, I didn’t.” She replied in a defensive tone. “And when I got home, it was obvious he hadn’t been there since Saturday at least, that’s when the maid comes in. Timmy has always been messy, and there were no dishes, the bed was made, no clothes on the floor.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “I tried calling him, then some of his friends. No one had seen him all weekend.” She dropped her gaze to her hands, again twisting her rings around her thin finger.

John hoped that Sherlock was getting more from this woman than he was. “So...that’s when you called the police?” he asked.

“Well, I waited until the next day. When I still hadn’t heard from him or been able to get in touch, I thought maybe I should call the police. You know how, on TV, they always say that you have to wait 24 hours before someone can be reported missing?” She raised her eyes to meet John’s, a small tear forming and running slowly down her cheek. “I’m at a loss, I just don’t know where he could be!” She let out a short, hiccupping sob.

John handed her a cloth napkin from the table. “I understand, Debbie, please don’t cry.” He patted her hand gently. “We’ll do everything we can to get you some answers.” He smiled at her sympathetically.

“John, please. Don’t let this woman manipulate you!” Sherlock exclaimed. Both Debbie and John turned to the detective, their mouths dropping open in surprise.

“Mrs. Ayers, I want to thank you for your honesty.” Her mouth snapped shut, her cheeks started to redden in outrage. Sherlock continued. “Not out loud, of course, but in your body language.” Sherlock stood and began circling the table as he shared his deductions with his captive audience.

“You’ve been fidgeting with your wedding ring throughout our conversation, a sure sign that you’re feeling guilty. I suspect that rather than visiting your mother in Charleston, you were indulging in a romantic getaway with your lover.” Sherlock said, scornfully.

Debbie could barely get a word out, she was so incensed. She stood up, spluttering and waving her arm at the detective. John thought Sherlock was lucky he wasn’t wearing the remainder of her tea...yet.

Sherlock continued chastising her. “Oh please, spare us the theatrics. I believe that you truly have no idea where he is, but your acting skills are stretched thin convincing us that you really care all that much.” He stopped behind John’s chair, putting his hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “You see John, she discovered when she returned from her clandestine tryst that Tim hadn’t been home since Friday night. Yet she waited another whole day to report him missing.” The detective turned his back on them, pausing his exhibition. Look who’s talking about theatrics, thought John.

“You were planning on leaving him anyway, so him turning up missing was fine with you. You’re hoping the police find his body, so you can collect the life insurance payout and start over with your boyfriend.” Sherlock shared his revelations with a flourish, then returned to his seat.

Debbie had, by this time, recovered the use of her voice. “It’s my girlfriend, you complete and utter ass!” She screamed at him. John was unsurprised to see her pick up her glass and toss her unfinished tea in Sherlock’s face. “Get out of here, or I’m calling the actual police on grounds of harassment!” She was shaking with indignation.

Sherlock calmly wiped the tea from his face with his napkin, then stood. “Girlfriend! Ugh, there’s always something.” He shook his head, clearly frustrated. “Come along, John. Work to do.” He walked towards the parking area.

John had been watching the entire exchange with his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide. He shook his head a bit, standing to leave. “Umm...thanks for meeting with us, Debbie, good luck with...ummm…” He trailed off, not sure what to say.

“Oh, just go! Get out of here!” Debbie collapsed in her chair in a huff. “You’re the ones who’ll need luck!” 

John gave her a final questioning glance, then went to follow his detective.


End file.
